Bittersweet Bakery
by greeneyeslover
Summary: Age 5: Decides he wants to be a gourmet chef. Age 10: Discovers he can’t cook a full meal worth crap. Age 24: Opens the Bittersweet Bakery. Age 26: Meets a beautiful girl. Too bad she owns the rival bakery… “Stupid Splenda!” AH ExB


A/N: So, this is something that just popped up a little while ago. Don't worry if you're reading Pictures of You because it isn't going anywhere. That story is my baby. I will alternate between stories, I guess.

Summary: Age 5: Decides he wants to be a gourmet chef. Age 10: Discovers he can't cook a full meal worth crap. Age 24: Opens the Bittersweet Bakery. Age 26: Meets a beautiful girl. Too bad she owns the rival bakery… "Stupid Splenda!" AH ExB

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EPOV (Prologue)

Just imagine it, you are going to the grocery store for the sugar that your parent's house totally lacks, completely minding your own business when your hand collides with somebody else's. Then having a full out tug-o-war match with a very beautiful woman over the best package of sugar. Now that you have that image in your head, try to imagine your surprise when you figure out that this beautiful girl you fought with just so happens to own the bakery down the street from yours. Not that it would really matter, but try considering the fact that this woman has been your bakery rivalry for a year and a half. Yeah, sucks, right?

Definitely.

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**Chapter 1: Sugar, Sugar, Splenda?**

**EPOV**

"Sugar, sugar. I _need_ sugar." I scanned through shelves of my parent's kitchen, hoping to find what I needed for the cake I was fixing: sugar. I tore through them when I caught sight of _Splenda. _As in that fake sugar shit. You know the stuff that tastes and looks like crap? _The_ fake sugar duo.

I gasped; tearing the Splenda from the shelve, throwing it to the ground and stomping on it like a child. Of all things my mother could have in her house, it had to be _Splenda_? She knew more than anyone that when it comes to cooking you go through _me_ first. Honestly, I couldn't cook one of those fancy, gourmet dinner, meals to save my life. But when it came down to deserts, I was the expert.

I've had my whole life planned out for me since I was five years old, no thanks to my twin, Alice's, help. I can't say I blame her. I'd never be organized without her.

When I was five my parents took Alice and I to a fancy restaurant. You know, the ones the chefs cook on in front of you? I found the things they did completely fascinating while it bored poor Alice to death. It intrigued me to see all of the things one single person could do with a pan and a stove. Of course, I'd seen my mother cook before, but it wasn't anything like this. After that day, I spent more than half of my free time in the kitchen.

The sad thing was I couldn't cook anything the chefs at the restaurant could. I couldn't even cook soup with the help of a parental guardian without ruining it. At least it felt ruined to me. Alice thought it was delicious and I was just being gay. My mother thought it could use a little work. My father wouldn't touch any of the food I cooked. He claimed it to be inedible.

But I never _ever_ tried cooking a desert. I was never much of a desert person anyway. So, for Christmas one year, I decided I'd help Mom out with the chocolate cake. Just like that wonderful night when I was five, the cake inspired me. I loved the way the icing would ooze out of its little bag, and the way all that goop from the beginning would become so moist and fluffy. I had truly found my calling. Deserts.

The satisfaction cooking would me would be as indescribable as hell. I knew I loved it, but nobody really understood that the deserts I made were works of art. Not only my deserts but other chefs' out there as well. They're the only ones to be able to even comprehend the love and adoration placed into each piece of art that children stuff into their mouths like savages.

All of this cooking as a child had to get me somewhere, right? Correct. Two years ago I opened the Bittersweet bakery with Alice and her husband Jasper. I did a lot of the cooking. Not all of it, but a lot of it. Over the years I learned just what to put into each and every one thing. If I let Alice or Jasper do _all_ of the cooking then I wouldn't have any customers. They'd usually try to get it over and done with by slapping it all together. I did have other workers there too, though. I wasn't particularly _fond_ of them, but they had major skills. They knew the bakery up and down and left to right almost as much as I did.

Now this life isn't as easy as it sounds. I have a rival, a freaking rival, as in Spiderman and that octopus guy from the movie. You might just think food fights, but this is an all out war. I've never even seen the owner this war is so bad.

I didn't have much to worry about though. I had the better deserts, more customers, a nicer place, and two little spies, Rosalie and Emmett. They were twelve-year-old best friends that came to my bakery almost everyday, giving me the updates on the Swan Cake bakery and buying form mine.

Swan Cake. Ha. You know Swan Lake? The last name of the owner is Swan. Creative? Yes, sadly. But the food? Okay…good. Service? Better than the food. That's rude but true.

Emmett's like a sumo wrestler in his own mind. If I were in his grade I'd be pretty terrified of him. He's not much smaller than me now. Rose, on the other hand, well, in a few words words; she's a toothpick with blonde hair. It's crazy how she could look like that since she could eat like a hog.

I picked the Splenda up from the ground and slammed it forcefully into the already overflowed trashcan.

The faint sound of footsteps coming down the hall rang softly in my ears as I carefully pushed my body into the same position I was in before I discovered the most unholy fake food product.

"Edward?" The harmonious voice of my mother's asked as she entered the kitchen with a large cardboard box covering her face. I left my post and went to set the box on the island.

"Mom, what is Splenda in your cabinet for?" I asked, trying to fell angry. But I couldn't be upset. I wouldn't let myself get too_ terribly _mad over something like that to my sweet mother. I could get mad at Dad for allowing her to buy it…

"Oh, that," she smiled sheepishly, gazing down at her feet. "Well, you see, I wanted to see if it were any good like mother said it to be. I don't like it, sweetie. It just didn't work as well as real sugar." She patted my shoulder and dug into the box, pulling out various contents like those really strange colored Christmas lights.

The fact that it was almost Christmas made me nervous. The only normal thing for me to do was to cook. Of course, I couldn't do that when I didn't have my freaking sugar.

"Right…" I trailed quietly. "I'm going to the grocery store. Need anything?" I added quickly, digging into my pocket ferociously, searching for my keys.

"No thank you."

I nodded and trudged outside to the car. I drove the feelingly insane fifteen minutes to the market.

I pulled into the parking lot, almost hitting a nice looking Jeep as I tried to find a spot to park. The person in the car honked the horn twice. I waved my hands apologetically and hurried inside, digging my hands in my pockets for warmth.

I slipped past people who were clogging the isles with their over-sized carts with their toddlers picking at everything in it.

I finally got to the isle containing all sorts of sugar: brown sugar, fake sugar, totally disgusting sugar, and totally appetizing sugar.

I let my eyes skim lazily through the shelves for the totally appetizing sugar. I found it briskly and reached for it. My hand collided with a smaller, softer one. I gave the package a soft tug, as did the other person. My entire attention was inflicted upon that one package that could have been easily taken away from me.

"I'm sorry, Sir, I believe I had it first."

_Tug._

"Umm…no."

_Tug.

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